Hunger For Insurgence
by Tamyaa
Summary: "Who are you, Four, really?" I ask groggily. I've never met anyone like him before and he scares me, but makes me feel alive at the same time. More alive than I've felt in years. His low quiet voice is the last thing I hear before I give into the darkness. I close my eyes. "Someone that you'll never be able to know," he says. And then I'm gone.


**_A/N: Here we are! The first chapter in the sequel to Hunger for Divergence. It's short, kind of. The others will be longer. This is just so you can get a sense of what's going on._**

* * *

_Zinnia_

_Then-_

_I'm standing in the doorway of my parent's room, quietly looking in on my father. I know he doesn't realize that I'm here, watching his every move, but that's what makes it interesting._

_When he came home from the mines today, I immediately realized something was wrong with him. He was even less talkative then usual and he could hardly look any of us in the eye. I could tell he was hiding something in his coat._

_Right now he sits on the bed with his head in his hands, silently crying. I would go in and sit with him and ask him what's wrong but something plants my feet right in this spot._

_And that's when he takes out the gun. _

_That's what he was hiding in his coat? Where would he get a gun? Why would he even need one? I start to go in the room but then he puts it to his head and pulls the trigger._

I was only five.

I would find out later that he stole the gun from a peacekeeper. But they could never explain to me why he did it. I've always assumed that life was too much for him and that his family wasn't enough. That _I_ wasn't enough. Why else would he so desperately want to get away?

_Now_-

The memory always drains my face of any emotion, so I always think about it when I don't want people to know how I feel. It's morbid, but it works. You've got to do what you've got to do.

Right now, the train station is swarming with reporters with cameras trained directly on my face. I know my eyes are probably red and puffy from the drive over. I couldn't help it, then. It was all too real.

Now it's not.

My mother is probably glad to have me gone. I was the tiny blemish on her otherwise perfect life. She always wanted me to be exactly like my two older sisters: Gorgeous, never questioned her, didn't think for yourself, and always did what was asked. She wanted me to eventually grow up and marry a guy that_ wasn't _a coal miner, and live a decent life (which is pretty hard to do living in District twelve, the poorest District in Panem). I tried to live up to my mother's expectations and follow in my sisters footsteps (though they're all airheads who married boring business owners) but I always seemed to fall short.

I'm pretty, I guess, but nothing like my sisters. They turned heads when they walked in the room. The only reason people look at me is to get a glimpse of my hair, which a hideous bright orange type color. It's some type of birth defect, I guess, since my sisters all have dark colored hair and my mother's is a dark red.

Anyway, I know my sister's will miss me. They were crying when they came to say goodbye, but my mother looked impassive. 'I love you' was all she said but she could hardly look me in the eye. I assumed she was lying. I already know I've failed her.

I glance over to my left to see how my new district partner is handling this. When he volunteered, he only introduced himself as 'Four.' It's a really strange name.

He stands there with his face devoid of emotion. It seems as though he's bored by all this, but I know he must be feeling exactly how I'm feeling inside: Petrified.

XXX

On the train (which is the fanciest room I've ever been in) I'm given a private chamber that has a bedroom, a private bathroom and a dressing area. I take off my reaping outfit and choose a pair of pants and blue shirt from the clothes that they have provided me.

When Effie comes to collect me for dinner, I follow her into the dining room where Four sits alone at the table, head bowed, obviously deep in thought. I slide into the chair in front of him.

He looks a little older than me, probably 17 or 18, and too well groomed to be from the seam, so he must be a town boy. I haven't heard him say a word other than his name at the reaping. He's mysteriously calm about all of this. Or maybe he's just good at hiding his emotions, something I've mastered over the years.

After dinner (with the absence of Haymitch, our mentor) Effie announces that it's time to watch the recaps and traipses off into another chamber. I stand up to follow.

"Recaps?" Four says.

I kind of jump when he says it. I'm surprised to hear him speak.

"Uhh, yeah. Recaps." He eyes me questioningly.

"The recaps. You know, of the reapings," I say. "Haven't you watched the recaps before?"

He shakes his head slowly. That's really weird. They always showed the recaps of the reapings in past Hunger Games. Why wouldn't he know about them?

"Well, come on. We have to see what our competition is."

XXX

In the compartment, one by one we see the names called and the volunteers (mostly the careers) walking up to the stage. Some of the tributes look vicious and others look harmless. I'd say it's an even mix.

I can't imagine killing any of them. It's not like I stand a chance, anyway. Maybe against the younger ones but I won't have the heart to kill them. I know I shouldn't abandon all hope of winning just yet, not before I've even started, but it's so hard not to.

At last they get to District Twelve. I can easily spot myself in the crowd – I'm a bright orange dot in a sea of gray – and then I'm watching myself take the stage, slightly shaking and scared. Next, Effie is calling Peeta Mellark and Four is taking his place. I wonder why he did that. They don't look related. Four doesn't even look fond of him. He barely glances Peeta's way when takes the stage.

I glance over at Four who looks as impassive as stone with his arms crossed, staring at the screen. It doesn't even seem like he cares. Doesn't he have a family that he's missing? Isn't he afraid of dying? I wonder what's going on inside his head.

He looks over at me then, like he senses me watching him.

And that's when I realize his eyes. They're such a peculiar shade of blue –the exact color of the night sky –and they're so deep-set that the eyelashes touch the skin under his eyebrows.

Four frowns. I've been staring. I quickly look away, embarrassed.

"…well I for one think you two will do just fine," Effie says. I'd been too caught up in my thoughts to realize she was even speaking.

"You both look healthy enough, better than past tributes, at least. Especially you," She looks at Four. "You look like you haven't starved a day in your life."

"You don't know anything about me," he says quietly.

"It's not my job to, dear. That is the responsibility of Haymitch, your mentor and I, for one, wouldn't rely too heavily upon his assistance because –"

As if on cue, Haymitch stumbles into the room. "I miss dinner?" he asks in a slurred voice. Then he vomits on the carpet and falls.

"Well," Effie continues. "I guess that speaks for itself." She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.

XXX

I got into bed late last night because I had to clean Haymitch up and help him in bed. It wasn't a pleasant experience or smell, for that matter. Four didn't even offer to help. He just silently retreated to his bedroom like a jerk.

So when Effie Trinket's voice calls for me to rise – "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big day!" – I'm more than a little annoyed.

I put on a green shirt and pants and coerce my thick ropey hair into a ponytail. Once we reach the Capitol my looks will be dictated by my stylist. I already know that they would think my hair is an atrocity.

As I enter the dining car, Effie brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red is chuckling. Four sits staring at his food, twirling a butter knife in his hand.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch, waving me over. As soon as I slide in my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. They also hand me a brown cup of something I've never seen. I take a sip and the hot, sweet liquid glides down my throat.

"Oh, my God. What is this?" I say, drinking some more.

Four looks at me like I'm an idiot. "It's hot chocolate. What else would it be?"

I glare at him. "I've never had it before."

"You've never had hot chocolate?" He looks incredulous.

"Yeah, they don't exactly have all you can eat buffets in District twelve, or haven't you noticed?" Is this guy for real?

He goes back to twirling his knife.

"So," I look at Haymitch. "You're supposed to give us advice?"

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Haymitch and then bursts out laughing.

"You would think that, after what happened last night, you would be slow to drinking alcohol," Four says coolly, and knocks Haymitch's drink from his hand with a flick of his wrist. It shatters on the floor, sending a blood red liquid trailing to the back of the train. "Guess not."

Haymitch seems to consider this a moment then takes a swing towards Four's face –

But Four moves fast and takes Haymitch by the wrist and twists his arm behind his back. Haymitch lets out a cry.

"I would think twice before I'd try that again," Four says and pushes him. Haymitch stumbles a little before righting himself. "Hm," he says and kicks Four.

Four catches his foot and pulls so he falls on his shoulder. Haymitch groans from the ground.

"That's enough you two!" Effie squawks from the other side of the train car. "Where are your manners?"

Haymitch puts his hands up in defeat, still on the floor. "All right, all right. You've got it, tough guy."

Four slides back into his chair.

Well, there go my chances of ever winning these games.

Haymitch takes his seat, rubbing his shoulder. His eyes land on me. "And what can _you_ do, Zinnia?"

What _can_ I do?

"I, um. I guess I'm pretty good with a slingshot, though it's not much, and I'm pretty smart, I think."

Four makes a snorting type sound – is he laughing? – and Haymitch says, "Anything will do, sweetheart. We'll take what we can get." He gestures with his chin to the other side of the train. "Stand over there, both of you."

We obey and he circles us, taking in our appearance from head to toe, checking our muscles, examining our faces. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless," He says to me, observing my ponytail, "Though they'll have to do something about the hair color. Not good for blending in with surroundings. And you," he faces Four. "You look like a goddamned career, yourself."

Careers are tributes who have trained their whole lives for the Games. They typically come from the wealthier districts, 1, 2 and 4. Never 12. But the way you could basically _see_ Four's abs through his shirt and the way his short sleeves clung to his biceps; it's not hard to tell how someone could make that mistake. For all I know, maybe he is a career. I mean, he did volunteer. And his skills look like he's been well trained. Those moves he used on Haymitch weren't just reflexes; they took skill and practice, something you don't get much of in District Twelve.

So where could he come from, then? Could he have escaped from another District? But if so, why would anyone want to leave a wealthier District to come to District Twelve, the poorest of them all? It makes no sense to me.

Maybe I'm just over thinking things. Like always.

Four looks baffled. "Careers?"

"You_ know_," Haymitch says. "Careers. Career Tributes." He still sees Four's confused look and continues. "Tributes who have trained most of their lives and volunteered for The Hunger Games."

Four looks at me, then. "Why would anyone want to do that?"

Boy, this guy really doesn't know anything. "For the fame and fortune that you get if you win."

"But what if they lose? They'll die, right?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "But that's just a risk some people are willing to take."

XXX

When the train starts to slow, I can't help but run to the window and see what I've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. I take in the glistening buildings and the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets. It's like a fairytale.

The oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces waiting for us at the train station point at us eagerly as they see our tribute train rolling in. They snap cameras and smile and wave when they see me in the window and suddenly I'm feeling self-conscious about my looks, which is a stupid thing to be feeling at the moment, considering the circumstances.

"I'd step away from the window if I were you. Your stylists haven't gotten to you yet," Haymitch mocks.

"I –"

"Stylists? For what?" Four cuts me off before I can respond.

"Jeez, boy, don't you know anything?" Haymitch sounds irritated.

I narrow my eyes at Four. There is definitely something wrong with this picture. Why doesn't he know anything about The Hunger Games? Doesn't he know what he signed up for? He looks about eighteen, he's known about them longer than I have. Something's not right.

Four seems to notice my suspicion and quickly looks away. "Never mind," he says under his breath.

XXX

I stand in a room with cold white walls, on a metal table, waiting for my stylist, Cinna. My prep team – which consists of three very colorful, odd looking people – have just finished "prepping" me, also known as, scrubbing dirt (and possibly a bit of skin) off my body, plucking my eyebrows and ridding my body of hair. My skin feels tingly and sore.

My hands go to my hair. Some guy named Flavius (whose hair was also a vivid orange red) said he adored my hair color and commanded the rest of the team to leave it alone. They ended up washing and straightening it so I at least look halfway presentable.

The door opens and a young man who I assume must be Cinna walks in. He looks relatively normal compared to everyone else I've seen today. He's wearing a simple black t shirt and pants. The only form of self alteration I notice is his sparkly gold eyeliner.

"Hello, Zinnia. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he also lacks the Capitol accent.

"Hi."

He circles me and takes in my appearance and I suddenly wish I had on something other than a paper gown.

He comes to a stop in front of me. "Interesting," is all he says.

I try to recall seeing Cinna during previous Hunger Games but nothing comes to mind. I'm sure he would stick out, being the only one not dressed obnoxiously flamboyant.

"Are you new?" I venture.

"Yes, this is my first year in the games," says Cinna.

"And they gave you District Twelve, the worst district."

"I asked for District Twelve," he simply says. "Come follow me. We'll have a chat."

I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank with the fourth made entirely of glass, providing a window to the city. The sun sits high above the tall buildings.

I sit on the couch across from Cinna. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second table top that holds our lunch. Chicken, oranges, and rice with pudding.

My family hasn't completely starved like some of the families in District Twelve, but we haven't exactly wined and dined either. Being middle class, my family could afford to eat only once a day, which is why when I see the food, I dig in without hesitation.

I wonder what it would be like to live in the lap of luxury where food appears at a press of a button, where you could decorate yourself in ridiculous colors and sit around and watch children die for entertainment. It must be nice.

"How despicable we must seem to you," Cinna says quietly. I look up to find his eyes trained on me.

"No matter," He continues. "So Zinnia, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Four. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes. As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."

For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 4, fishing. District, 3, factories. District 12, coal miners.

I don't know how they think they're going to pulls this off without being dull. District Twelve typically wears skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps.

"So we'll be dressed as coal miners?"

"Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that the coal miner thing has been very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable."

I sincerely hope I won't be nude.

"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal. And what do we do with coal? We burn it?"

"You're going to burn us?" I ask, incredulous. Surely that's not what he means.

"You're not afraid of a little fire, are you, Zinnia?" He grins.

XXX

A few hours later, I'm dressed in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny black boots lace up to my knees, but it's the cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna will light them on fire right before our chariot pulls off.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. I decide to trust him. Surely there must be a rule against burning your tributes to death before they enter the arena.

My face is clear of makeup and my hair has been brushed out and is hanging in long locks past my shoulders. "Your hair color will complement the flames well. It will make you seem, not as if you are _on_ fire, but as if you _are_ the blaze itself. I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," Cinna says dreamily. "Zinnia, the girl of fire."

It has only now crossed my mind that Cinna might just be a complete madman.

XXX

Four and I stand side by side in our chariot in matching outfits. He has on that far away look, I realize, like he's thinking longingly of some other place he'd rather be. Or someone he'd rather be with.

The tributes from District 10 pull off and Cinna hops up on our chariot with a torch. I hold my breath as he lights our capes and headdresses. Cinna lets out a sigh of relief. "It works." Then he tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you."

Cinna jumps off and District 11 rolls away.

"Zinnia," Four says under his breath, only loud enough so I can hear him.

I look at him, slightly startled. I can't help but notice how unreal he looks in the flames; sort of like a burning prince.

"I need to talk to you," he says.

"Do you really think now is the time?" I ask

His eyes turn to slits. "I mean later tonight. It's important." We're about to pull off and Cinna shouts something at us from behind but the music drowns him out. I turn around and Cinna yells again, gesturing, but I still can't understand what he's saying.

"_Zinnia_." Four's voice demands my attention. I whip my head around to look at him. "_What_?"

"Meet me tonight on the roof, got it?"

At that precise moment our chariot takes off, surprising me so much, I'm about to fall right out the back-

When Four's hand grips mine firmly, and he pulls me upright.

I fix my slightly tilted headdress. "Thanks," I say to him, but he doesn't let go of my hand. I try to yank it away from him but he grips it tighter. "Cinna was yelling for us to hold hands."

I hadn't even noticed the crowd going crazy at the sight of us. They cheer and shout "District Twelve," drawing all the attention away from the chariots up ahead.

I catch our appearance on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a cape of fire trailing in our wake. We look radiant.

The crowd gets wilder and starts cheering our first names. I dare to wave at them and blow kisses. This will get me sponsors for sure.

Maybe this isn't as completely hopeless as I thought.

The chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. Our horses pull up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

The president, a thin white hared man gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. The camera cuts away to the faces of the tributes but I can see that District 12 is getting more airtime. It's hard to miss us as the lights dim and our Chariot parades around the circle one last time before disappearing into the training Center.

As soon as the door shuts we're engulfed by our prep teams who are incomprehensible as they babble our praise. I glance around and notice that some of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, and then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot and carefully removing our capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

I realize that I'm still glued to Four and force my stiff fingers to open.

"Thanks for catching me out there. That would have been disastrous if it weren't for you," I say to him. He's looking out at all the tributes, mentors, and stylists talking. I notice that he doesn't have on his usual carefully guarded expression. Right now he wears a look of silent wonder, the way a new born child would look at their mother, as if they've never seen anything like it before.

Four nods a little and it's clear I don't have his attention.

"So," I start, desperately wanting him to look at me, "Tonight. On the roof." He matches my gaze. "What did you want to talk about?"

He turns away, as if he suddenly got bored of the conversation. "You'll find out when the time comes."

He is so mysterious.

XXX

The training center has a separate tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This is where we will live for the remainder of our time here. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto the elevator and press your district number.

On the ride up to our quarters, Effie Trinket chatters away about our performance at the opening ceremonies. She's complimentary, not just about our costumes, but also the way we conducted ourselves. According to her, she's been talking us up all day, trying to get us some sponsors.

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally," she says. "You being from the coal district, and all. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'

I try to smile at Effie even though she is completely wrong. Four makes no such effort. He stares at her with open hostility. He probably thinks she's an idiot since coal doesn't turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that," says Effie grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

My room is just as fancy as the train car. The shower has many options to choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. I must have been in there for at least an hour. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.

XXX

I sit at the dinner table with Four, Effie, the stylists, and Haymitch. Everyone has just finished their dinner and is now having idle chit-chat. I'm sort of anxious to get this part of the evening over with so Four and I can talk.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" Haymitch's question snaps my attention back to the dinner table.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Haymitch. "Very nice."

Rebellion. I remember the other tributes standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other's existence, as if the games have already begun, I know what Haymitch means by that. But somehow it doesn't seem right to present Four and me to the audience as friends and then having us at each other's throats in the arena.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," Haymitch says to Four and me. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

I take an eager glance over at Four. He meets my eyes and gives an inconspicuous nod towards the corridor leading to our rooms.

We have some of our own talking to do.

XXX

I follow Four to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. It's windy when we step out into the night and my hair whips around my face wildly. We walk to the railing at the edge of the roof and peer out at the city.

The view is stunning from here. The Capitol looks like a utopia at night, with the tall white buildings and the twinkling lights on the trees. All of the colors are more vivid than back home. They're so lively they almost look artificial. The grass is an unnatural shade of green and the water from the fountain in the middle of the city looks flawlessly blue. It's like a dream.

I find it amazing how a beautiful place like this could be filled with such terrible things. Like how they could just round a bunch of children up, send them here to be paraded around in fancy clothing, then into an arena where they have to kill or be killed, all the while the residents sit around and watch like it's the most entertaining thing in the world. It's sick, but that's just how life is.

And I can't change a damn thing.

"What are you thinking about?" I only now realize that Four has been watching me. He's always so quiet, you can almost forget he's there.

Almost.

"Just about how something can be so _wrong_ and you can't change it no matter how hard you try," I tell him. "The world is stuck this way and it always will be."

He looks away from me then, with that far away look he gets sometimes, as if he's in an entirely different place.

I take a chance. "What are _you_ thinking about?"

He's silent for a moment. "Don't say that," he says quietly.

"What?"

"Just don't _say_ that!" He raises his voice which startles me. "You're _wrong_. Things have to change. They _can't_ stay the way that they are. Especially since I sent Kat-." He cuts off abruptly. After a pause he continues more slowly. "You can't believe that things can't get better. If you do, they won't." His gaze slowly matches mine. "Its regular people like you and I that change the world and we can't let fear stand in our way, or else nothing would improve. You _have _to believe that, okay?"

I give a slow nod. Four shows so little emotion that his passionate outburst comes as a shock. What was _that_ all about? He doesn't strike me as an optimist, either. I mean, "Regular people change the world and we can't let fear stand in our way"? What _is_ that?

For some reason, I think Four might be full of surprises.

My expression must be questioning because Four rolls his eyes and looks down at the city. "Forget it. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

He's so moody. One second he's all passionate and intense and the next he's closed off again. I've had enough. "What is it you dragged me up here for?"

He exhales. "I need your help."

"No. You're a jerk."

He narrows his eyes at me which no matter how intimidating, is still sort of cute when he does it. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you."

"No, but I _do_ know that you're a jerk who thinks you're better than everyone else and you're always in a pissy mood and that I don't have to help you do anything," I turn and start walking towards the door but Four grabs me and spins me around to face him.

His eyes search my face for a moment and I feel like he's looking through me with his blue eyes. As though he can see all of my little secrets. "You're serious right now?" He asks.

I cross my arms. "Very."

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, touches his hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. As if _I'm_ the aggravating one.

"I'm sorry," He finally says. "Okay? I'm sorry. God, it's all been a little stressful lately. You wouldn't understand."

"_Stop saying that_! Just _stop_." He jumps a little at my forcefulness. Now it's _my_ turn to blow up. "You're acting as if I'm not in the _exact _same situation you are. You think _I'm _not stressed out? You think I _want_ to be here? I miss my family just like you do. My life may not have been the best, but do you know how much I _ache_ for it right now?"

"I do-"

"_Shut up_, _I am_ _speaking_." His mouth snaps shut. "I can _assure_ you, 'Mr. I'm-so-emotional all of a sudden', that you're _not_ the only one who is feeling things right now. I'm experiencing everything you are. I am _right_ beside you, so don't you _dare_ say I don't understand. Dumb bastard."

He has officially pissed me off.

Four looks incredulous. I know he thought that I didn't have it in me. But who does he think he is? He thinks he's the only one feeling pain right now? He's got another thought coming.

Four does the weirdest thing, then: He starts to _laugh_. I mean, full on, head tipped back, genuine laughter. I've never even seen him _smile_ before, but here he is, laughing away. It's a wonderful sound. I think I even see tears in his eyes.

He does have a strange sense of humor, though.

"You're crazy," I state matter-of-factly and turn to leave for the second time tonight.

"Zinnia, wait," he says, getting himself together. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're weird, and I'm done with this conversation."

He grabs my arm again. "Wait, please," he begs. He takes a deep breath. "It's just, I've never had anyone talk to me that way before."

I still can't see why that would be funny. "Yeah… well." Another gust of wind blows and I rub my arms to stay warm. I shouldn't have worn short sleeves.

"Are you cold?" He asks me.

"Obviously."

He unzips the jacket he's wearing and shrugs it off. He offers it to me.

I look from it to him. "Why can't we just go inside?"

"I don't want anyone listening in on our conversation. I have the strangest feeling we're being watched. Take the jacket."

I hesitate for a second and then take it and slip it on. It's way too big for me and the sleeves dangle, but God, is it warm and cozy.

"Will you listen to me now?" He asks. I realize we haven't even gotten to the point of this conversation. I nod.

"I need you to tell me everything you know about the Hunger Games."

"What?"

"Like, everything about The hunger Games in general: the events the tributes do leading up to it, tell me about past arenas and sponsors and everything like that. Please, I need to know."

I get a careful look at Four, with his short hair and inquisitive dark eyes. His body is toned and hard and he looks extremely healthy. Even healthier than the town boys in District 12. How is that possible when you're living in the poorest District in Panem. And how come I've never seen him before the reaping? He's not the type of person you would miss. He's very attractive.

I knew something was off about him from day one. I take a step closer to him. "How come you don't know anything about the Hunger Games if you live in Panem, Four?"

"And that's another thing," He says. "I need you not to ask questions."

"You're asking for a lot."

"I know. And that's why, if you do this for me, I'll help you train."

I perk up, then. "What?"

"At the dinner table they said something about training later on in the week. If you help me, I'll give you lessons in fighting."

"What makes you think I want help from you, Four?"

"Don't play dumb." He says. "You've seen what I can do. And besides, you wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity like that. You are going to be fighting for your life, after all."

He makes a good point. But there's still one thing…

"You do realize we're supposed to be _against_ each other, right? I mean, after all, there can only be one victor."

I notice that we've unconsciously gotten closer to each other. We're about 10 inches apart and I have to look up to see him.

"Eventually, yeah," He says and smiles. "But who said we can't be allies?"

This is a bad idea. I don't want to have to end up killing him if we make it to the end –as if I could, anyway –but for some reason I'm glad he offered. Maybe it's just the fact that I need a friend now, someone to rely on. But can it be Four?

"How do I know I can count on you?"

He's closed the space between us and it's as if the air around us is electrifying. "I guess you're just going to have to trust me."


End file.
